


Falling Apart to Half Time

by Arya_Greenleaf



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ballet, Bisexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-John Wick (2014), Slow Build, Slow To Update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: The Director presents John with a job: he doesn't know who he is meant to kill or to protect her from and she can't or won't offer any details. He only knows that she, and ostensibly her seat at the High Table, are in danger. She trusts no one else to complete this mysterious job while she prepares the company for a significant season opener. Over the course of the weeks leading up to the season opening, John meets Helen and their connection is undeniable.
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAD SOME THOUGHTS.
> 
> But they've mostly been like 4AM can't sleep thoughts so I'm working this out as I go along. I hope it's not crap, I wanted to post up this first bit to gauge interest.
> 
> Fair warning, I really just wanted to write about former premier danseur John getting pegged by Helen and crying bc he's overwhelmed by how much he's enjoying himself. I just don't know how I'm gonna get there.

“What atrocious sentimentality,” the Director says. She moves around the table in a  _ swoosh _ of fringe and beads. “I am not your  _ mama _ , I only need your gun.”

John’s chest seizes and he reminds himself that he is no longer  _ Jardani Jovonovich _ and that the Director was only ever that. It’s nice, he thinks, that she asked for him, though. It’s nice to be needed by someone.

John shakes his head, clearing the weird muck it’s flooded with. The Director is pouring herself a drink at the bar cart. She doesn’t offer him one and he doesn’t expect her to. It’s not her style.

It’s just a protection detail. It’s an easy job but the fact that she reached out to him specifically,  _ personally _ , tells him more about the situation than any other information she might offer. There’s been some threat. Vague enough to keep going about her business but obviously serious enough that she feels the need to have an extra pair of eyes around.

Serious enough that she needs the boogeyman.

“You will be under contract until I say otherwise. You are to take no other jobs until I release you. I will double your rate for your trouble. You may choose your currency, cash or coin.” She turns back toward him and takes a long slow sip of whatever is in her glass.

_ Oh _ . Yes. Serious.

“You will stay here, of course. There is a room available. The armory is open to you. Any questions?”

John considers it for a moment. “When do I start?”

“Immediately, obviously.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s strange to be back in the fold. Not that he ever left, of course, but this inner circle. Rather, not so much as an _inner circle_ as it is the microcosm of a world that circles immediately around the Director. The manor never sleeps, just the same as it was when he lived there. The children train until they collapse or survive, whichever comes first. They fight and they dance -- or they dance and they fight. It’s all the same.

“Do not get comfortable,” the Director told him. “I have no use for you sitting around and getting fat.“

“If you don’t want me sitting around then why don’t you let me go out and eliminate the problem?”

“Because it is a more complex issue than can be solved with a pair of bullets in the right skull.”

She may not be his mama, but John still knows how to play the game like she is. So, he humors her. When he’s not at her side, he trains. When he’s not training, he’s at her side. Days crawl by with no new information and John cannot help the encroaching boredom. Rather than making him careless, it shoves him into hypervigilance. He can hardly sleep, too focused on the continuous _nothingness_ of the job.

He’s studying the security feeds, looking at every pixel from corner to corner and learning every face that his brain has capacity for when the Director's voice yanks him unceremoniously out of his focus.

“Jardani,” she hisses into the intercom. John’s attention sweeps across the screens toward Training Room A where the Director is looking up at the camera while she holds down the button. “Make yourself useful. Come down here and show these lazy slugs how this is done. Get out of that suit and put on something you can move in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says plainly. He feels chided, like he’s done something wrong, even though she’s offering him rare praise. With a nod to the security tech John is out of his seat and sprinting to his room, undoing his tie as he goes. He’s not warmed up, he thinks. Not stretched. Not to even mention that he’s years out of practice. It’s like riding a bike, he tells himself. It better be, lest he incur the disappointment of the Director.

John skids to a halt at the door of the training room, breathing hard and already itching with the crawling of sweat on his scalp when he’s changed. He feels like he’s an untested child again and he doesn’t like it.

“Ah,” the Director says when he steps inside. She twirls the switch she’s holding, leaving it to rest on her shoulder. “He finally graces us with his presence.” She snaps her fingers and an older teenager scurries to a supply cabinet and then across the room to hand John a pair of shoes. “Warm up while they finish this sequence. A broken man is useless to me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” John murmurs and lowers himself to the floor in the corner to put his shoes on and spread his legs out to stretch.

“Do you hear that? _Yes, ma’am_. Even the Baba Yaga knows to afford respect to his betters.” 

Little gasps erupt around the room from those who understand what the Director is saying, who John is. The younger ones have heard the stories, the older ones strive to replace him -- as they should. To be what John is, is the only path to survival. 

“Let us hope he has not gotten so soft that he cannot put you all to shame.”

When the students at the barre have finished whatever sequence it was they were working on, the Director turns to John and clears her throat. He looks to the space that a few of them clear on the barre and she very minutely shakes her head. He stands in the middle of the room instead. She extends one finger and he knows what she expects. He falls into first position.

“You see? Even dressed so poorly for class, _Mr. Wick_ may provide an example. Nice, open hips.” 

She _thwacks_ the switch against his body as she talks. It’s gentle, it won’t leave a mark, she’s only illustrating her narration. But that doesn’t stop it from startling him. His feet falter as he slides from fourth to fifth and she pauses to level a scathing look at him. The students all around the room are silent, holding their collective breath. John slides back to first and stands waiting for further instruction.

“Again,” the Director commands. 

John goes through the positions more smoothly, anticipating her pokes and smacks this time. 

“Again.” 

He repeats the movements, his focus glued to the little observation window on the door. 

“Turn.” 

As he finishes fifth, he rises onto the balls of his feet and eases into a simple turn.

“Thank you, Jardani, you may return to your post or stay and watch. The choice is yours.”

The choice is clear and it’s not his. He nods and stands away from the class near the door, hands folded behind his back, at ease. It feels strange to be standing in the studio like this -- the competing smells of resin and sweat and bleach fighting in his nose, the sound of the Director’s switch sailing through the air and smacking the barre or the end of it tapping against the floor. It’s like a sensory lullaby, flipping switches in his brain until he’s forgotten who _Johnathan Wick_ is, if only for a few moments.

He can remember the last time he stood against the wall this way. It was punishment then, with his nose touching the exposed brick. He remembers the hours he spent standing there, and then on his knees when it was decided he hadn’t learned whatever lesson was meant to be imparted after all. He must really have never learned if he cannot remember what it was.

“Jardani,” the Director hisses, “Your assistance, please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he comes forward to stand beside her and wait for instruction. Eyes all around follow him and shift from him to the Director and back again.

“Demonstrate the lift, I am tired of watching it be done so sloppily.”

A tall, lanky young man steps away from the middle of the room, his cheeks pink with embarrassment. John knows this isn’t just a lift, if it were then there wouldn’t be a tattered mat on the floor. There’s follow-through expected. The dancer still standing in the middle straightens her spine even further when he approaches. Her body is tense when he stands behind her. She knows what’s coming even though it hasn’t been said. She’s much more quick to the game than her partner.

“Once for show, then _properly_.” 

John and his new partner answer her in the affirmative together and take a moment for a breath. In smooth, easy motions, John bends and puts his hand against the back of her thigh. His other arm braces around her waist and his cheek rests against her side. Her elbow presses against his shoulder and they plie together, sinking down and shooting back upward. Her feet leave the floor and she throws her legs out elegantly while he rolls her across his shoulders and places her gently back down. They rise out of plie and return to a neutral position.

“Good. And?”

John doesn’t wait for his partner to ready herself. He repeats the movement, fast and purposeful. If she straightens her legs in the fluid dancing posture they just demonstrated, she’ll risk breaking them when she falls. Her arm tightens around his neck but she doesn’t have the time to lock it. Her body rolls across his shoulders like a very shapely sack of potatoes and he drops her onto the mat. She gasps and chokes, all of the air punched from the chest with the impact. His hands twitch, their instinct to reach for his holster while he opponent is at a disadvantage programmed into them. He helps her up instead, holding a hand out to her and half expecting her to use the gesture to put him on his back, too.

“No movement is wasted. Ever. If you cannot learn that, you cannot remain here.”

The Director pauses and looks around the room. The dancers here are clearly elite among her stock. They don’t need the demonstrations that John provided. They need what wasn’t in his demonstration. John is sure in that moment that his wheezing partner will be dealt some penalty for accepting his assistance rather than retaliating against him like an opponent should have.

“All of you get out of my sight. I would have you practice until you fall down but I cannot have you convalescing when the season opens.”

She turns and nods at John and he takes his leave, his heart thumping in his chest with the intimate familiarity of it all.


End file.
